Please excuse the lack of recent posting as I'm currently preoccupied with preparing for an upcoming Web project. News of this soon.

Here's a quick thought on yesterday's AFL grand final. Despite being a Collingwood fan I can't help but commiserate with Port Adelaide's disastrous result. As a long-suffering St George rugby league supporter I know only too well the long term effects of such a record losing grand final.

In 1975 Saints were whitewashed 38-0 by Eastern Suburbs, in what came to be known as the 'white boots' grand final. St George legend Grames Langlands took the field injured, only to spend the game 'in a field of fairies', after an overdose of pain killers. Sadly, he was totally useless.

And just to compound the misery he inexplicably broke with tradition and choose to wear gleaming white football boots for the game !?

As a result of this ignominious thrashing I have a friend who, anytime he wants to push a button, quietly says to me, "Mate, white boots..." In much the same way my son will occasionally remark on my wedding suit choice from that year, "Dad, brown suit..."

Grand finals can be cruel and some games are best forgotten. Thus I fear Port Adelaide fans are now faced with a psychological hurdle taking a generation or more to overcome, if ever. Good luck to them.

There’s a lot to be said for a bloke who, when his missus is out of town with the kids, uses the opportunity to stay with his widowed mother. And is not afraid to admit it. This was the case last night with a passenger whom I dropped at his Mum’s place.

His own house is an impressive waterfront pile. "The place is just so empty without the family there," he lamented. "I hate it." Having once experienced this I asked, "When you walk through the joint does it echo ?" "Sure does," he agreed. "It just makes me miss them more."

Another pleasant surprise was his ready acknowledgement of my presence, when others in his position could’ve simply ignored me, especially after a long day. Instead, being naturally friendly he sat up front and, without a hint of pompousness, quietly chatted about work and life in general. Plus it was obvious how much he adored his family.

Thus I reckon his missus struck gold jagging him...she must be the luckiest woman in the world. Who is this man...?

On Saturday evening I stopped for a coffee in Kings Cross. Outside the café was a homeless guy slumped on a table, amidst a mess of dirty plates, napkins and spilled coffee. Obviously he’d been there for sometime.

"That drunk’s been there for five hours," moaned Stavrous, the young barista. "He was inside earlier, until he threw-up and I got the cops to throw him out. And I had to clean up his mess, of course." "Mate, you’re a patient man," I told him. "The prick wouldn’t last two seconds in my cab after throwing up."

Next thing the bloke rose from the table and stumbled inside. "Out !", Stavrous barked, pointing to the door. Standing next to me at the counter, unshaven, dishevelled and reeking of the street, the drunk appeared much younger than I’d imagined, somewhere around forty years of age.

Rather than the expected abuse and aggressive response, he was rather mild and submissive as he sought a favour. "No, no, I’m going," he fawned incoherently, "but can you tell Jethro...umm...you know Jethro, right ?" Stavrous rolled his eyes, "Of course I do, he works here. What about him..?"

The drunk unsteadily turned and surveyed the café, as if checking that no one was watching. He had their full attention. Unfazed he continued, "Tell Jethro...you know Jethro...he’s got my coat." "I very much doubt Jethro would have your coat," Stavros sneered, "but I’ll tell him. Now go before I call the cops."

I followed him outside with my coffee, lit a smoke and watched as he retrieved a cigarette butt from the footpath, before wandering off.

Well, last night I spoke with Jethro and learned that the above scene was the sequel to an incident last Friday. The bloke had been camped in the café, rotten drunk and collapsed on a table. Suddenly he’d awoken and gone into an uncontrollable spasm, an attack of the DT’s so acute that he could barely stay on his chair.

Also present in the café was a regular patron, a woman around forty years old who was a heroin and methadone addict. In an impressive piece of quick thinking she produced a large bottle of rum from her bag. "Get me a glass of milk !" she commanded, ‘this will fix him." Sure enough, a solid measure of rum and milk did the trick and the drunk slowly regained his ‘composure’.

"Thanks for that," he told her, "you saved my life", then noticed her jewellery. "That’s a nice ring you’re wearing," he remarked. "Can I see it ?" "Sure, it’s an antique," she replied, "my grandmother gave it to me." Inexplicably, she took the ring off and handed it to him. Dumb and dumber.

And you guessed it; when she eventually asked for the ring back the drunk stonewalled, denying all knowledge of it. Of course she flew into a rage, with the resulting commotion forcing Jethro to ring the police. "There’s a junkie here who reckons an alcoholic stole her ring," he informed them. "And you know what - I believe the junkie !"

Whilst waiting for the cops the drunk staggered outside to take a leak, leaving his leather jacket on a chair. This was a mistake as the woman, in another burst of inspiration, took the opportunity to grab the jacket and stuff it in her bag. Talk about junk-yard dogs.

After the cops investigated the matter they told her that she would have to consider the theft a loss. With no other choice left she told Jethro, "Tell that bastard he doesn’t get the coat back until he brings my ring back." "Okay, where do you live?" asked Jethro. "Down the road on the church steps."

Whilst waiting at the Airport last night I read two seemingly unrelated stories in The Sun Herald. The first reported on the late cancellation of Saturday’s Rosehill races. A sidebar piece covered two couples who had travelled from the country to attend the meeting,

"We are really pissed off," Mrs Prince said. "We are farmers battling the drought and this is not something we can afford all the time...we have bought new clothes and hats to wear. All in all, I think we probably spent around $1500."

Well, they’re either doing it tough or not, I thought, despite the trip being a special birthday celebration. Sure, battling farmers are entitled to a break from the misery, but an expensive trip to the City races sounded at odds with their claimed plight.

Three pages on was an article on a ‘shock’ new survey, a Sunday paper speciality,

Generations declare war on home and work fronts.

This referred to the current phenomena of baby boomers (BBs) being blamed for hogging senior jobs and groaning assets, at the expense of following generations, X and Y. X resents BBs; BBs resent being resented; both are dismissive of Y as overly demanding. Yet Generation Y can’t even get a decent start, let alone some of the action.

Early this morning I recalled these stories after picking up a young farmer around 20 years old. He was off a western NSW property and had spent the weekend in Sydney with old school mates. "What are they doing here, studying ?" I asked. "Yeah." "And partying..?" I added. "Pretty much," he laughed.

My inquiry of the drought confirmed it’s severity on his parent’s farm. "It’s bloody awful selling the cows." I assume this reduces their ability to replenish the herd, essential for future earnings. A diminishing exercise which would surely end in ruin.

At a City backpacker hostel he painfully counted out coins, loaned to him by a mate, the only money he had until returning home today. "Mate, just give me half," I said, "and buy yourself some breakfast in the morning." Whilst it was enough for a Big Mac Meal, I later regretted not insisting he keep it all.

But then, on second thoughts, maybe he'd simply blown all his money. Yeah, that’s it, claiming hardship whilst partying in Sydney. Sheesh ! I’ve been conned by one of those "young people today... reckless, irresponsible, lazy, rude and abuse drugs and alcohol.." Bloody Generation Y.

Last night in the City a woman requested I take her friend home. "He has Downs Syndrome," she said, "so I’ll get you to write down his address and take my phone number in case there’s any problems." She handed over fifty dollars, confirming it was enough to cover the fare.

The passenger had the typical Downs physique-short and stocky-and climbed in the front seat with a friendly, if indecipherable greeting. Wearing a smart grey suit with an elegant flower on the lapel he presented as quite dapper, having just attended his brother's wedding. I judged he was somewhere between twenty and forty years old.

On departure I assumed the trip would be a babysitting exercise, expecting to travel in silence as he quietly looked out the window. Instead, he immediately latched onto the radio program playing in the background. It was the post-match coverage of a rugby league finals fixture.

In a garbled, slurred voice he asked, "Who won ?" Cool, I thought, a footy fan. "Who do you like ?" I asked. A gleaming smile broke across his rounded, cherubic face. "Manly," he replied. "Well mate, it’s good news for you," I told him. "Manly smashed ‘em." "Yes !" he cried, pumping his hands in a double-fisted action.

From thereon in we talked basic football, especially Manly’s win which takes them to their first Grand Final in ten years. With the possibility of them facing the Eels, he revealed that he’d be watching next weekend’s game with a mate, an Eels fan. The prospect of winning a bet on the game, "just for fun", really delighted him. He also nominated Steve Menzies as his favourite player.

What did surprise me was his ability to understand the post-match summation on the radio. Positive comments on Manly’s win elicited agreement and a chuckle. Another revelation was having him guide me over the last stages of the trip. Whilst he didn’t seem to know his ‘left’ or ‘right’, he knew every turn, from habit I guess.

Upon arrival at his home he alighted so quickly I had to call him back for the ten dollar change, about which he seemed genuinely surprised. Realising this I almost jokingly suggested, "Don't tell your mother."

Otherwise, aside from the fact my passenger was handicapped, this was a largely unremarkable fare, no different from most. Though he was the most civilised Manly fan I carried all night. Understandably, they were drunk as skunks.

adrian one must ask do you just drive a cab around just to write stories for this blog or do you do it to make a living for looking here at what hours u work me thinks you be better getting a real job.

Why do I do, what I do ? Trust a cabbie to ask a direct question, though a fair one at that. Leaving aside the implication I’m wasting my time driving a cab, I’ll give it a shot...

I have to get cabs most nights home from work (a decent fare). Most drivers drive like maniacs and I get home feeling carsick! Can you address this in your blog? How do I say 'stop driving like a crazy person' without getting tossed on the curb?

The operative word here is ‘sick’. As I’ve previously written, the only thing which scares drivers more than being mugged is vomit. Yet indicating that you feel sick requires some tactful phrasing in order to avoid ‘getting tossed on the curb’.

Maybe something like, "Driver, please slow down, I’ve just had an operation." Or, as the above writer is female I advised her to consider using the ‘pregnant’ word.

There are numerous defences available to passengers which will tip the balance of power their way. That’s the dynamic involved in a situation where the driver is behaving/driving like an idiot. Often your safety and maybe life is at stake so I encourage passengers to use whatever tactics possible. You're entitled to lie, heavily.

Finally, in any situation involving dodgy conduct or fares always ask for a receipt, ensuring the correct plate number is quoted. Without this a dispute can't be pursued.

There are some people in life, of a certain personality or physicality or demeanor, who are more likely to be attacked or mugged than the average person. As such, people with this condition will often be the target of multiple attacks.

Crime researchers in New York City once conducted an experiment to prove the phenomenon. They gathered a number of mugging victims and had them mingle with a crowd on a busy sidewalk. Also involved in the controlled experiment were some reformed mugging perpetrators watching the crowd. Without fail the muggers easily spotted and identified the previous victims as likely targets for mugging.

The phone rings at home around dinner time and there’s a connection delay at the other end. Uh oh, I think, India calling. "Hello, this is John from ..... International," the caller announces with a distinct Asian accent. "John," I reply, "do I know you..?" "Err, nooo," he cautiously says. "Okay, then," I suggest, "let’s leave it that way. Bye." Click. Cruel, I know, but that’s how it’s become with unsolicited tele-marketer calls.

Yet one can’t simply brush-off workers in offshore call-centers contracted to Aussie companies. If there’s a service relationship with that company, one has to grin and bear the sometimes unfathomable accents and resultant frustration. Not to mention a natural reluctance to dealing with international staff for local matters. But then, what's 'local' in today's world ?

To date I’ve never stopped to consider that in many respects these staffers are just like me, providing a needed service and struggling to make a buck.

Until now, that is, after reading an article on Indian taxi drivers contracted to ferrying those employees to and from work. They work all night carrying staff who fix the world’s banking, computer and accounting glitches,

Arya looked out at all the call-center vehicles speeding past. "At this hour, there are only call-center cabs on the road," she said. "I told you we are a breed apart. The aliens are out in the night."

Then, like her cabbie, she retires at dawn and attempts to sleep throughout the day.

Right now, at 6.03am, it’s a routine which sounds terribly familiar and I must admit to a certain affinity with these people, providing the exact same service in today’s global economy. Therefore, good luck to them, I say.

It’s a neat article and well worth reading, for a rare personal perspective on life for offshore staffers. Me, I’m off to bed.

Last night I met a security consultant for various club and hotels. His job was to rid them of drug dealers and underage patrons. It would be fair to assume that along with alcohol abuse both issues are the major problem in these establishments. But the widespread use of ice was the biggest concern for my passenger, with his team banning three dealers in the past week.

The previous night they had busted a patron smoking a pipe of ice in a toilet cubicle. "How did you know," I asked, "can you smell ice being smoked ?" "No, ice doesn’t smell, but recently this club installed..." "Smoke detectors ?" "Nup, glass doors on the cubicles." The glass is semi-opaque, affording some privacy but not concealment.

When the ice smoker emerged from the cubicle he refused to empty his pockets. "Well, you either do it for us or do it for the police," the security told him. Of course he then complied. The drugs and pipe were confiscated and he was barred from the club. He was lucky.

Underage patrons are not so lucky, if they’re silly enough to use their own names. Their forged identities are confiscated and handed over to the police. I related how some kids are obtaining sophisticated false identities like drivers licences and passports in Asia, whilst holidaying with their parents. Apparently, a fake passport can be obtained in Thailand for around twenty dollars.

He knew of this and suggested that most door security staff aren’t properly trained in spotting fake identities. "If you know what to look for it’s not too hard," he said. "With some ID’s you just flick the corner of the card and lift the false laminate. When you pull it away it raises the last two numbers of the forged birth year." However he conceded that with modern copying and printing technology it’s a never ending battle. An old story.